


Midwinter

by Devcon03



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Non-Consensual, Non-Consensual Bondage, Slash, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-29
Updated: 2017-03-29
Packaged: 2018-10-12 17:40:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10496214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Devcon03/pseuds/Devcon03
Summary: A walk down memory lane on the longest night of the year.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Artemis10002000 in LJ. 
> 
> Contains mentions of abuse, rape, but doesn't go into detail. 
> 
> Beta'd by Redseeker, but any mistake you find goes down as mine. Thank you, love, for helping me with this!

At the time war raged, and the world had set upon tearing itself apart, Sweden was fighting his own battles in the furthest North. 

During these dark ages, conflicts spread like rot, forcing him to bleed strength into the land so that his people had something to hold onto. Too strong to fall, a giant whose shadow reached far, he soon was forced to change, and his lands with him. 

Thus, he became an adventurer, soaring free. Later, a conqueror of unknown lands, drawing fear when the dragon's head was spotted. He was a mighty king, unmatched in battle - an _emperor_... And then, he was a lost soldier, mourning those who would never return, dying on the ice. He was the dying spirit of midsummer's eve, the orphaned child left without shelter as his city burnt to cinders. He was-

 _Freezing._

The land beneath Berwald's soles was starving, experiencing the slow death. It drew from him to survive. Staring at the pale blue that marked the forests of Dalarna, he remembered how the icy cold had come out of nowhere, to never leave again. 

Frost had covered everything those first weeks, growing like needles, the _skare_ cutting deep enough to wound. It had forced him to kneel, filling his mind with the cries of dying lambs and children, leaving him vulnerable as never before. He'd bowed his neck, just once, but it had invited trouble. It came in the shape of Mikkel, who'd been over him in moments, and he'd known defeat at the hands of the strongest of them all. 

Mikkel, always just about too rough, had taken hold of him, and the snow had turned red as they fought...

 _Old memories, old scars_. 

The silence bore down on him, and he fled it, became one with the frozen ground to feel a connection that grew weaker with each passing day. So cold it burnt, the perma-frost had moved into every home and hearth, into the very collective consciousness of his people. There it boded, hungering for the last sacrifice that would colour the blinding snow. It wanted to wipe him out, wanted to rid the land of the last, remaining warmth. 

He was in no condition to fight it off, not when Mikkel was this close. 

Wincing, he trudged along, mourning the state of his poor steading. He heard them, how they cried out for the sun's return, begging for a sign of spring. Freezing winds held his people hostage, copying the rulers, always preparing for another skirmish, eager to shed the blood of hapless soldiers. As long as the flag stood proud to the sound of war-drums, Denmark would know defeat!

Could they not see it...?

 _He_ did. 

Caught in an everlasting winter's night that knew no end, fatigue and death ruled his house. What could he do, but to keep moving, offering strength were it would matter the most? Midwinter had never lasted this long, and with the old ways gone, he was all they had, and Denmark kept gaining on him... 

Berwald was strong, but not as strong as Mikkel – _never_ as strong as Mikkel, or so it seemed to him, as he pushed through knee-high snow. Last time, he'd barely escaped the shackles, but he still felt the ghost of them around his wrists. Invisible, heavy, _unwanted_ they trapped his hands, pinning his spirit. He felt them, even now, as intimate as a lover's breath upon his skin. 

He'd known he would never be free of his old lover and master, not truly. Mikkel had always been the stronger, wilder one. His dominance leaving imprints all over Europe, claiming one land after the other, as if owning Sweden wasn't enough.

 _History repeats itself,_ Norway always said, his voice low and melodious, ominous. Berwald often wondered about that when he looked at his wrists, tracing the invisible marks he knew were there. Did he miss it, the belonging to someone who never questioned himself, taking everything he wanted by force? Did he truly miss- 

Something _shifted_ , and the longest night became the shortest day. 

A soft, sweet breeze made his hair shift gently. 

Drawing a deep breath, his connection to the land whispered of a pocket of peace, and he was no longer weighed down by cold and ice. In the silvermine of Sala, he felt an uneasy truce spread through the land. In the streets of Sigtuna, he felt the promise of a future. At the blink of an eye he was everywhere, studying the flow and ebb of time as treaties were drawn, broken and reforged. Memories danced around him like pale ghosts. 

Man now spoke about 'modern days', and behaved as if war would never happen again. How short-lived their memory was, but there were too many hungry bellies to fill, and he drew from himself until he could no longer hold life back.

In his steading, old and powerful as many an empire, snow now melted into small rivers. The scent of turned soil filled his senses, and the lark's song echoed in the meadows. Once again, sweetbrier buds were allowed to bloom. The land was calm, brewing other things than strife. The remaining snow fell heavy upon old kings' graves, covered forest and farmland alike. 

Silence spread into the minds of men.

It made Berwald dormant, but he was still a looming presence, looking after what belonged to him and him alone. He stretched into Finland, kept territories. Lost others. He was impassive at times, dark and moody at others. Quiet. When forced, he would show why he'd once been an emperor. Norway left, eventually. With Finland things were different. Finland allowed him in, and he could relax. 

His house lost shape over time, became grave and serious. He forgot about Mikkel, and concentrated upon things far more important – _progress._ He grew solemn, too focused on rebuilding what had been lost over the brief period of time that Mikkel had been allowed to reign. With Norway breaking lose, he now turned inwards, in order to protect what was left of the land of Svear and Götar. 

The memory of man is short – _his_ never was. 

And so, whenever he met Mikkel, he found himself observing his every move. Waiting for the ever-present smirk to grow blood-thirsty, for those hands to come upon his wrists and _hold_. 

Just like before, when they were one. 

Time will never change the way Denmark's intense gaze rests upon his broad shoulders, nor will it erase aeons of history between them. Mikkel's obsession with Sweden's strength, with the way he controls himself – it's as maddening as addictive. Which is why Berwald keeps his distance, ever closed off and distant. 

The never-ending winter night, when lakes froze and children died of starvation is long gone, but he can still feel Mikkel's hands against his throat, holding him. Just. _There_. Shrouded in pale gold and red, staring at Berwald with large eyes, so dark and intent, his hunger obvious, as his blood had coloured the snow...

_Pain._

_“Why do you fight me?”_

_“Because someone has to!”_

_Heat burning him, the taste of blood, the screams of his people crowding his mind, tearing at his soul. Mikkel's sapping him of strength, like before,_ using _him, taking everything he'd worked so hard for, that he loved..._

_“Give up!”_

_“I'd rather die. Let go of me, I don't belong to you! I'm my own master, I'm-”_

_A biting kiss quietens him, and he is left helpless, boneless, because Mikkel is stealing his breath and strength away just like-_

*

Midwinter's night is over, once again. 

Berwald is standing on a white shore, staring across the sea. The hairs on his arms stand, because he had not intended to be here, so close to Denmark. The air, thankfully, smells of sea, not of malt pale lager. He knows his memories have brought him to this shore, and he feels how Mikkel is not at all far away. 

He touches his lips, _remembering_ the pleasure, the pain...

There is something horribly wrong between the two of them, always was. Passion, fire and hate; beneath, endless love, wild and deep enough to drive anyone insane. 

Perhaps Mikkel _is_ crazy. 

Perhaps he is. 

But, this is not then, and Midwinter's night is over. From now on the nights will grow shorter as daylight returns. Men will look forward to Midsummer, will remember how sweet wild strawberry tastes like, not at all bitter, like Mikkel's kisses. 

One last look across the ocean, and he turns his back to Denmark, fading away as the memory he is.


End file.
